'Smiles', Eliot H. Robinson [books suggested by elon musk TXT] 📗
- Author: Eliot H. Robinson
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Book online «'Smiles', Eliot H. Robinson [books suggested by elon musk TXT] 📗». Author Eliot H. Robinson
A maid opened the door on Beacon street in response to her ring, and, on entering the hall, Rose found herself face to face with Marion Treville. She was clad for the street and was at that moment in the act of buttoning a long white glove. As she recognized the visitor, a deep flush mounted quickly on the patrician face of the older woman and, for an instant, her teeth caught her lower lip.
Smiles' face was very pale, so pale that her large eyes by contrast appeared almost startling in their depth and color. There was a gossamer film of dust on her shoes and the bottom of her skirt, for she had walked all the way from the hospital, and she realized this fact with a sense of chagrin, when she saw Miss Treville's eyes travel to her feet, and mentally contrasted her own appearance with that of the perfectly appointed daughter of wealth before her.
Neither spoke for an instant. It was as though each were trying to read the thoughts of the other. Then Miss Treville said in a cool, even tone, "You may go, Louise."
The maid vanished silently, with one curious backward glance as she passed through the door at the end of the hallway.
"Miss ... Webb, isn't it? You wished to see ...?"
"Tell me that it isn't true," broke in Rose, her voice trembling a little in spite of her effort at self-control.
"Tell you it isn't ... true?" echoed the other, with lifted eyebrows. "I'm afraid that I don't quite underst ..."
"But you do understand, Miss Treville, why do you say that you don't? It is in the paper."
"Perhaps I meant to say that I do not understand why you should come here to ask such a question, Miss Webb," was the icy response.
Rose was silent. What answer could she make to this pertinent question? She felt the hot tears starting to her eyes; but, even as she was on the point of turning toward the door, with a little choked sob of bitter chagrin, the other continued. Curiosity had unloosed her tongue.
"Well? May I be so bold as to inquire what interest you may have in my personal affairs, Miss Webb? Frankly, I am at a loss to understand the meaning of this unexpected, and—I might say—somewhat unusual visit."
"I ... I don't know as I can explain," began Rose, hesitantly. "I ... I felt that I had to see you, because ... I had a letter yesterday from ... from Dr. MacDonald...."
"Ah."
"Of course he writes to me, you know that he is my guardian," she answered the interruption with a flash of spirit. "He said in it that he was coming home just as soon as he was able to ... to get well and ... be married, and then that paper.... Oh, Miss Treville, surely it isn't so. You wouldn't throw him over, when he is so far away, and ... and sick?"
The other's voice was not quite as steady as before, when she answered, "I don't see why I am called upon to explain my ... to explain anything to you, Miss Webb."
"Then it is true." The sentence rang out sharply. "And he doesn't know. He thinks that you are waiting, and ..."
"We need not discuss the matter, in fact I doubt if the doctor would appreciate your ... shall we say 'championage'? The matter is between him and me, wholly."
"No, it is not, Miss Treville," flared Rose, with the angry color at last flooding her cheeks. "I have heard people say that, if that story is true, he is lucky to have escaped marrying you; but, just the same, those of us who really love him—you needn't look like that, of course I love him—don't want to have him hurt, as any man would be who was cast off like an old glove while he was far away and had no chance to speak for himself. That is why I hoped it wasn't true, and that you hadn't, perhaps, killed his faith in my kind. And that is the only reason."
Once started, her words had poured out as hot as lava which had broken from a pent-up volcano.
"So, that is the reason, the only reason, for your coming to me with your impertinent question?" Miss Treville laughed oddly. "Really! Do you know, I have always suspected that the little savage whom he brought from somewhere in the backwoods regarded him as rather more than a guardian, or a brother ... that was the pretty fiction, wasn't it?" she added, with honey coating the vinegar in her speech.
Under the lash of the words Rose grew white again. Her hands clenched; but, before she could answer, Miss Treville continued:
"It really seems to me that you ought to thank me for stepping aside so obligingly."
The occupation of a high level in the civilized world, or in society, is no proof of the Christian virtue of self-control,—that has been demonstrated, in the case of a nation, all too clearly these last years; and individuals are like nations, or vice versa. The feline that lies dormant, as often in the finished product of city convention as in the breast of the primeval woman, was now thrusting out its claws from the soft paws of breeding. And Miss Marion Treville, leader of Back Bay society, was rather enjoying the sensation. She had passed not a few uncomfortable hours in company with her conscience, even while she was yielding to the glamorous flame which surrounded her new suitor. It was a real relief for her to be able to "take it out" on some one else, and a victim had offered herself for the sacrifice, most opportunely.
Rose shrank back as though she had been struck; then steadied herself and said with an effort—for her throat and lips were dry, "I think that perhaps you were right when you called me a 'little savage.' I know that I feel like one in my heart now, and I think, too, that it would be a real pleasure for me to ... to ..."
The other stepped hastily back, and Rose laughed, bitterly.
"Oh, please don't be frightened, I'm not going to scratch you. We wood people don't fight with your kind of animal, they're too unpleasant at close range." She paused, and then went on more steadily. "I came here ... I didn't know just why I was coming,—perhaps to plead with you for Donald's sake. That doesn't look much as though I loved him ... in the way you insinuate, does it? No, if I had, I should have won him away from you, long ago. It would not have been difficult, I think."
She spoke so coolly, and with such perfect confidence, that the other winced.
"There isn't anything more to be said, is there?"
Was this the simple mountain girl, whose voice was now so suave and who was smiling so icily?
There was a pause, during which Miss Treville's trembling hand sought behind her and found the servants' bell cord.
"I am really glad that I called, Miss Treville, for you have succeeded in convincing me that I have no occasion to be disturbed—on Donald's account."
"Miss Webb is going," said Miss Treville, formally, as the maid appeared.
All things by immortal power,
Near or far,
Hiddenly.
To each other linked are
That thou canst not stir a flower
Without troubling a star.
A. Quiller-Couch.
Life is so largely a thing of intermingling currents, of interwoven threads, of reacting forces, that it is well-nigh impossible understandingly to portray the life story of one person without occasionally pausing to review, at least briefly, incidents in the lives of others with which it is closely bound up.
So it is with the story of the pilgrimage of Smiles.
While, following her graduation, she was taking a course in district nursing, giving freely of her new powers to the poor and suffering of a great city, and taking, and passing, the State examination which gave her the right to place the epigrammatic letters "R.N." after her name, something was happening more than three thousand miles away, of which she had no inkling, and yet which was closely linked with her existence.
Donald had, indeed, written in a manner to minimize his illness, which had been a prolonged and serious one; so much so that he had, greatly against his will, finally come to realize the necessity of his taking a rest from his unremitting toil, and he had agreed to return home for a vacation as soon as he should be well enough to make the long trip.
Depressed by his wholly unaccustomed weakness the doctor sat, a convalescent in his own hospital in Toul, one stifling July day. To his physical debility was added the dragging distress of mind which comes at times to those who are far away and receive no word from home. No letters had reached him for weeks. Removed from the sphere of the abnormal activity which had been his, and with nothing to do but sit and think, Donald had, for some time, been examining his own heart with an introspective gaze more searching than ever before. He felt that he had been, above the average, blessed with happy relationships, deep friendships and a highly trained ability to serve others—and he knew that he could honestly say that he had turned this to full account.
Besides, he was betrothed to a beautiful woman whom many coveted. When his mind reached Marion Treville in its consideration, it stopped to build a dream castle around her, a castle not in Spain, but in America. He had earned the right to rest beside the road awhile, and enjoy the good things of life. Marion was waiting for him at home, and whatever doubts had, at one or another time, entered his mind as to their perfect suitability, one for the other, they had long since been banished. Distance had lent its enchantment, and he had supplied her with the special virtues that he desired. His was a type of mind which held to one thought at a time, and he had always possessed a fixedness of purpose of a kind well calculated to carry through any plan which that mind conceived. Combined, these characteristics made a form of egotism, not one which caused him to overrate himself, but to plough ahead regardless of the strength of the possible opposition. When he returned to America he would marry Marion Treville immediately. No other idea had seriously entered his mind since they had plighted their troth; they had not been quite ready before, that was all, he told himself.
It was in such a frame of mind, and with a growing eagerness for the day when he might start for home to claim his reward, that he received her long-delayed letter. What it said does not matter; but one paragraph summed up her whole confession. "You cannot but agree with me that ours was never the love of a man and woman whose hearts were attuned to one another, and sang in perfect unison. We really drifted into an engagement more because of propinquity than anything else. I am a drone—the product of society at its worst—and you are one of the workers, Donald. I feel quite sure that you will always gain your truest happiness in your work. Although I know how you love children (and I don't), I cannot think of you in the rôle of a married man, so I do not, deep in my heart,
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